


Better Than Sex

by LightDescending



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, F/F, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Finch and Reese make brief appearances, Fix-It of Sorts, Food as a gesture of affection, Innuendo, Mild spoilers for season 3 on, Mildly embarrassed defensiveness bordering on hostility, Minor Violence, POV Sameen Shaw, Shaw goes on a fake date with a cool older woman, flirtation, witty banter; overt come-on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28973070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightDescending/pseuds/LightDescending
Summary: The mark is across the diner from Shaw when Root slides into the booth opposite from her.“Hey, sweetie,” she says, beaming, all cat that got into the cream. Like usual.“You shouldn’t be here,” Shaw mutters around her mouthful of eggs. "I'm working."or: Four times Root looks after Shaw’s food-based needs (directly or indirectly), and one time* Shaw reciprocates
Relationships: Root | Samantha Groves/Sameen Shaw, Sameen Shaw & Food
Comments: 10
Kudos: 88
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Better Than Sex

The mark is across the diner from Shaw when Root slides into the booth opposite from her.

“Hey, sweetie,” she says, beaming, all cat that got into the cream. Like usual.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Shaw mutters around her mouthful of eggs. The man she’s targeting today, with his number up, is pensively looking out the window with an open notebook in front of him. Or is he calculating, instead of pensive? Hard to tell. “I’m working.”

“Relax. She sent me.” Root reaches over the distance between them for one of the anemic-looking orange slices hanging on to the side of Shaw’s plate, and Shaw whacks her fingers with the flat of her steak knife.

Root flinches back, smile curling up at the edges of her dumb, coy mouth. She twirls her finger around the earphone cord dangling down her front, a single earbud popped into place. Must be attached to a cellphone hiding somewhere in one of Root’s pockets. 

Shaw gestures, pointing the knife towards Root’s face. “I’ll use the pointed end if I have to.”

“And won’t _that_ be fun?”

Shaw lowers the knife when the waitress comes up, steaming coffee pot in hand.

“What does She want?”

Root just continues smiling, mute, light the colour of weak lemon tea coming through diner windows smeared over with streaks from cleaning spray, and waits until the waitress has moved on over a few tables before she speaks. Shaw, refusing to be bested, maintains direct eye contact while chewing on some toast – took too big of a bite, the buttered crust turning to a doughy wad against her cheek, but like hell she’s going to flinch at that either.

“It’s not clear just yet,” Root replies at last. “I was told to keep you company. And I’ve already settled the bill on your behalf – so the least you could do is share.”

Once more Root’s eyes turn to Sameen’s plate – now mostly bare, except for some final shards of steak, a half-stick of bacon gone cold, some crumbs, the pathetic fruit, and a few last bits of egg. Shaw lifts her plate up, flicks the orange slice off the side where it lands in her water glass, shoves the remaining lot into her mouth, and ignores Root’s exaggerated sigh.

“Well, breakfast is over.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Root murmurs, leaning across the table to swipe a thumb at the corner of Shaw’s lips like she’s got something caught there. This time, Shaw’s attempt to bat Root’s hand away is _just_ shy of reflexively quick, and so she almost misses it when Root reaches down and grabs the steak knife. 

“Your guy has unwanted company,” she says, still angled acutely over the top of the table with her hand splayed next to Shaw’s emptied plate. Then she’s rearing back, booted foot stepping up onto the cracking sun-weakened vinyl covering the bench, a narrowed look of concentration on her almost-gleeful face.

The knife flies true from Root’s hand. Near the door, diner bell still tinkling out a greeting, a man with red-rimmed eyes holding a gun grunts in pain. The knife clatters away without having stuck in anywhere, but she’s had the desired effect; he’s ducked, first shot going high, the bullet fired into the ceiling. Powder from the plasterboard tiles shivers down.

Root’s in motion, stepping onto the table and knocking cutlery onto the floor. Someone screams in shock.

Shaw rolls her eyes and sweeps out of the booth herself; Root lands with both feet on the ground, snatching out with her left hand to grasp onto someone’s white stoneware coffee cup. The kind with the good, thick walls. The man is advancing now, clearly pissed off, and the last thing Shaw sees before turning away is Root splashing the steaming contents of the mug directly into his eyes.

Today’s number is gaping, notebook half-shoved into one of those stupid trendy canvas backpacks. Shaw sketches a quick smile onto her face, aware that the effect is likely more unnerving than not.

“Relax, Jordie,” she says, snapping a vice-grip onto his upper arm. “She’s got you covered, and now so do I. Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”

Behind her, a faint snapping sound – a man yelping, the sound cut off with a low gurgle – the sound of a gun, clattering to the floor. More hollering, now. What’s probably a mug smashing against the floor.

“What the – _who are you_? The hell is going on?”

Hustling him towards the service doors of the diner, which are flapping open as a big chef in a grease-stained white apron makes his way through them, Shaw grimaces.

“What’s going on is the start of heartburn. I _hate_ it when she gets to have all the fun.”

Root’s voice rises over the amassing chaos: “I’ll take this one to go!”

* * *

A few months later, Shaw’s feigning infatuation over dinner with a swanky silver-haired fox. This one’s an easy catch. Looked delighted when Shaw showed up in something sleek, black, and off-the-shoulder; graciously offered an arm, bothered to put on some pungent botanical cologne that smells like pine, which Shaw clocked and commented on. Complimented the tailoring of her date’s suit, too. The conversation is lively; it’s gonna suck for this one when Shaw breaks things off, but at least tonight has been entertaining, and everything Shaw says is responded to with quick-witted assuredness and seems to be having the desired effect. Sure enough, when Shaw laughs and puts her hand atop her date’s hand, there’s a visible reaction – slightly blown pupils in the candlelight, a faint flush crawling up the side of the neck.

She’s pretty sure this case is cut and dry – the number is almost certainly the perp – but she and Reese are having it out over whose method for sussing out the plot will be more effective.

They drew straws.

Shaw gets to be the blind date and would-be seducer; Reese got stuck on surveillance of the number.

_Sucker._

John’s currently posted at the estate of the older woman Shaw’s flirting with, where Frank Carlisle Jr. was last seen heading in his silver Corvette.

Ms. Carlisle laughs, a pleasant rasp in her throat from too many cigarettes when she was younger – she quit years ago, Shaw’s been assured – and lifts a hand to beckon their server over with two fingers.

Shaw smiles demurely, picking up her wine glass for another deep swallow of the passable ‘85 Sauvignon Blanc that Ms. Carlisle is paying way too much for.

The wine almost goes down the wrong pipe when Root’s the one who shows up at her elbow, one arm crooked behind her back and a white-gloved hand holding the bottle expertly to pour.

“Anything else I can get for you? More oysters?”

“Ah,” Ms. Carlisle brightens, “it’s been a lovely evening so far; Sameen, would _you_ care for more oysters?”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Shaw says, feeling a tight-lipped smile on her face. _Ignore her_. “Dinner’s been wonderful.”

Reese, in her ear: _“Stall for more time, Shaw, Frank hasn’t done anything yet.”_

Smooth, Shaw continues: “should we get dessert, though?”

“Between the three of us?” Root tilts in almost conspiratorially, mock-whispering, “…there’s a panna cotta on the menu tonight so good you’ll want to lick the plate.”

Carlisle laughs, eyebrows shooting upwards, and claps her hands. “How sinful!”

 _“Ms. Groves –”_ and Sameen can hear the wince in Finch’s voice, which has been audible for the last thirty minutes of flirtation or so – “ _a bit more_ decorum _if you please, lest you blow Ms. Shaw’s cover._ ”

“Shall I put in the order and remove your plates?” Root interjects easily, breaking in around _decorum_. “Or would you like a little more time?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Shaw says, acknowledging Root at last with a scant nod before returning her full focus to Ms. Carlisle. More’s the pity – her peripherals have a good view of what she didn’t finish eating. Carlisle is too much a conversationalist, and Shaw mourns the unconsumed remnants of her roasted beet salad, the tahdig-crusted rice she didn’t get around to, the tangy yogurt sauce and fried shallots clinging on in gleaming drops of olive oil. It ought to be a _crime --_

“Yes, yes – feel free,” Ms. Carlisle is saying, while Root whisks her plate away as well. The woman had finished her steak, at least.

Reese’s whispery voice issues into Shaw’s ear as Ms. Carlisle excused herself to the restroom some moments later.

_“He’s making his move.”_

Shaw taps her earpiece to activate the mic, concealing the motion by brushing her hair behind her ear. “And?”

“ _Trying to poison her – powder in every bottle in the home bar. Seems Frankie Carlisle’s trying to bump her off, or at least incapacitate.”_

“So I take it I should refuse a nightcap?”

“ _On the contrary – I think he’s waiting around so he can phone in the issue.”_

 _“Ms. Carlisle has an… ample insurance policy,”_ Finch adds on the line. “ _It seems Frank Jr. wanted to cash in on it before she met someone to sign in on it. She’s been hitting up the dating scene rather aggressively of late.”_

Across the dim-lit restaurant, Shaw sees Ms. Carlisle emerge and look her direction. She pulls a smile on, and lowers her face as if blushingly shy. “Good for her.”

“If she didn’t take you home, it’d be the real crime,” Root murmurs, lowering a quivering dessert into place before her. It’s one of those miniscule servings, something you’re supposed to long for seconds of, garnished with sprigs of microgreen verbena and a passionfruit gel and artful dots of gastrique.

“What is it with these places and their portion sizes?”

Root doesn’t drop her act. “I’ll be sure to pass along your feedback to the kitchen.”

“Don’t you dare—” Shaw begins around a tight smile, but Root raises a finger in a minute, warning gesture.

“Please, take your time!” She chirps, smoothy drawing Ms. Carlisle’s chair back an inch.

“Thank you – oh, _look_ at these!”

Okay, so maybe they are worth savouring with eyes closed, but Shaw wouldn’t rank them plate-lickingly good. She has some standards.

The rest of the evening passes as Shaw would expect: a confrontation at the estate; the dramatic shattering of a crystal decanter; a guns-out standoff with the son who had a firearm-related backup plan; disbelieving, enraged tears from Ms. Carlisle, followed by a satisfying leg shot courtesy of Reese; a stammering signoff courtesy of Finch _post-proposition_. Declining Ms. Carlisle’s offer to show gratitude is the one slight regret Shaw has, although she _doesn’t_ turn down a less-than-chaste kiss – might as well leave this handsome woman something to remember her for – but her stomach is _growling_ in demand for some proper calories. Shaw would rather attend to those real, urgent needs than any hypothetical good time.

Root’s waiting for her at the library, still in her waiter’s blacks, holding a paper container full of Shaw’s half-eaten dinner.

“Thought I was going to have to order takeout,” Shaw remarks, taking it; Root brushes her fingers against Shaw’s while she lets go. Shaw pretends not to notice. The container’s heavier than she’d expect. 

“I took the liberty of topping this off with some extras from the kitchen.” Root winks. “Let me know how my selections rank. Duty calls, Sameen.”

Then she’s gone, and Shaw turns to see Finch arriving with Bear in tow, too late to pester Root for anything.

“You got a microwave?”

* * *

It’s not long after that – and the jaunt across the country dealing with relevant numbers – when Shaw finds herself back in New York. The whole Samaritan thing continues to escalate. Even though her docket feels overfull with Northern Lights shut down, Shaw can’t help but think that the politicians in crisis deserve it. She hopes the affair is an entire _thicket_ in Control’s side.

Accustomed though she is to jetlag and jolting time-zone shifts, Shaw still needs a coffee and a bodega breakfast to set herself right. It’s the closest thing she has to an NYC tradition, whether or not the Bronx is involved.

A bacon, egg, and cheese is her go-to, sometimes with a splash of hot sauce, on a Kaiser bun, with hot black coffee. She’s rounding the corner to her favourite place, breath a fog in the cold November air in front of her, when she stops dead. Ahead of her, Root holds out a paper-and-foil wrapped sandwich, a coffee with the drink tab open to let steam out; without tasting it, Shaw knows it’s going to be at the best temperature to drink. 

“Why are you _always_ just showing up out of nowhere?”

Root adjusts her scarf once Shaw snatches the sandwich away from her at arms-length. “She knows where I need to be next. Right now it’s here – and I wasn’t about to pass up the chance to cross paths with you en route. The Machine was… accommodating, if not supportive.”

The sandwich is fresh enough to ooze cheese in a satisfying way, but Shaw is distracted by the dark-ringed circles under Root’s eyes as she begins to wolf it down.

“You look like shit,” she comments, drawing in a little closer. “Been changing your dressings the way I told you to?”

Root half-lifts a hand to her ear, where Shaw knows the implant went in, before dropping it back to her side. “I’m fine, Sameen. Thanks for worrying.”

Root’s usual confidence is watery around the edges, leaking a little, the way a bit of yolk is where it coats Sameen’s tongue. She downs a swig of coffee to wash things down, holding the cup in a pincer grip from the top, and steps into Root’s airspace. She doesn’t touch anything, but the area looks clean; Shaw dips, puts her coffee on the ground, removes a glove by biting the tips of the fingers with her teeth and pulling. She presses the back of her hand to Root’s forehead. Seems okay. Root holds still for her.

“Well, you’re not feverish, so I’ll assume you’ve kept infection at bay.” Stooping to retrieve her drink, Shaw straightens to see Root’s eyes unfocused, peering into the middle distance.

“I’m fine,” Root repeats absently, before snapping back. “Gotta go, though.”

When she brushes past, Sameen barely resists the urge to grab onto Root’s forearm.

“Hey!” Root doesn’t turn. Shaw has to talk to her back. “That’s it?”

Root turns her head just enough for Shaw to see the tip of her nose, the slight curve of a cheekbone. “You’re the healthy start to my day I needed,” she says, “but I’ve got work to do. Twenty seconds and I need to be gone.” 

“Bullshit, Root – you took a detour on my behalf, but when’s the last time _you_ ate?”

Now she shifts just enough to give Shaw a profile view of her face. “Catch as catch can. I’ve got big fish to fry, Sameen. The pieces are falling into place, but between my main preoccupation and the side project of the relevant numbers… I might need to drag you along with me some more.”

“…Fine by me,” Shaw settles for saying, even though it’s not quite what she wants to get at.

“One of these days, show me that steak joint you told me about.”

Root heads off at a clip that puts speed-walkers to shame and melts into a crowd. Left in her wake, Shaw tears another bite off her sandwich. It’s started to go cold. 

* * *

By now, Shaw knows every inch of the subway station she’s trapped in.

It’s been weeks since her cover was blown – department store _makeup clerk_? The Machine should have known better: it was a matter of time before she got fired for sniping at a customer or stabbing a manager with a mascara wand, and she’s tired of pacing. She’ll wear grooves in the concrete at this rate. A driving need for stimulation has led to her experiment with all the ways an abandoned subway car can be used for exercise. Her favourite so far is pull-ups using the hand-straps or overhead bars above the seat, but she’d settle for more. Or less. Finch assures her they’re working on a long-term solution that’ll let her see the sun, but in the interim all she’s got is Bear as a semi-constant companion and endless, nagging _boredom._

Root is apologetic. Probably overcompensating, sucking up for that trick with the sedative. Still: it means that Shaw is brought a parade of gifts.

Sameen hates being predictable in any way. But she _is_ intensely food-motivated, and when Root retreats to their collective hidey-hole and new centre of operations, it’s always with some delicious delivery. Guess the Machine is talking to her again, as per their weird arrangement. If Root is mobile again, Shaw figures there’ll soon be some plot that enables her own freedom to be restored. Or that she’ll be called upon in an emergency – these twerps are competent on their own, but inevitably something’s gonna happen that Reese, Fusco, and Finch can’t handle.

Shaw chooses not to interrogate why she doesn’t include Root among their number.

As she does every time she hears the sound of approaching footsteps, Shaw goes on high alert. At this point, no one looking on would be able to tell – she no longer adjusts her posture – but she reaches for the gun she keeps holstered in case of unwanted company. It’s just Root, and she’s got little tiffins in a stack that she’s carrying at her side.

“Indian?” Shaw calls out.

“Not even close,” Root replies. “Dim sum. This was the easiest way to keep it warm.”

“Huh.”

The chopsticks break unevenly at the top, which Shaw has heard is bad luck somewhere, but there’s a hell of a spread when all the containers are popped open, metal clasps dangling. Shiu mai, ha gau, Teochew dumplings, xiaolongbao that have stuck to the little paper circles they were transferred from the steamer on. She’ll have to slurp the broth out awkwardly from the side so that the thin dough skin doesn’t tear. There’s a couple of taro cakes, some steamed gai lan, and lotus leaf rice. Root fishes around in a bag and tosses over a little paper packet, top folded over, that has sesame balls inside.

“You really went all out,” Shaw remarks with her mouth salivating furiously. The last thing is a thermos of steaming tea that Root screws the lid off of; Shaw is too busy shovelling shrimp dumplings into her mouth to notice, lips slightly parted so she can suck air around the hot filling that threatens to burn her tongue.

“It’s the least I could do.”

Shaw lowers her chopsticks, cheeks bulging.

“You’re not going to try to steal any of this?”

“That’d defeat the purpose of my apology, wouldn’t it?”

“Huh.”

More for her. Everything that needs to be springy is springy, what needs to be sticky is sticky; Shaw relishes the salt, the savoury notes, soy and meat and sweet. Wherever this is from, it’s some of the best dim sum Shaw’s ever had. Half of her expects Root to gaze over the proceedings in her usual semi-voyeuristic manner, but instead she’s picking at her black nail polish and scratching Bear idly under his collar.

“What’s the end game?” Shaw says at last to break the silence.

“Mm?”

“There’s gotta be some kind of plan to take Samaritan down, right? Hide-and-seek isn’t going to cut it forever.” 

“I’m… not sure. But I have faith in how this could still end for the better. She’s arranging a meeting with a Decima representative of some kind – we should know enough after that to figure out a way to proceed, which means there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.”

“Yeah, well, no offense? But down here, that’s more likely than not to be a train.”

Root laughs. “Funny! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were opening up to me! Vulnerability’s a new look on you, Sameen.”

“You know me better than that,” Shaw counters.

“I do, don’t I, sweetie?”

Shaw chews over the bite that she’s got in her mouth, before shoving a few tins towards Root across the floor. One has dumplings; the other, half the remaining sticky rice, lotus leaf flopping over the sides. Root raises an eyebrow.

“Eat.”

“Is our relationship turning a corner?”

“I’ll take it back. If you’re going to sit here forcing your company on me, fuel up while you're at it.”

“You really _do_ care.”

If Shaw were a different person, the conversation would continue – a match where Root fired blanks and Shaw countered with bullets that intentionally missed their target by a narrow margin. Warning shots. But they’re both tired, and Shaw is confined, so instead she lets it drop.

* * *

> _I have a surprise for you._

“Yeah? Can’t say I like surprises as much these days.”

> _You’ll like this one. You should make dinner for two._

“What?”

But the Machine falls silent.

Shaw drums her fingers on the countertop before turning to the fridge. “A little warning, that’s all I’m asking for!”

No reply comes through, so Shaw flings her fridge door open with a rattle. The interior is barren, at least based on her usual standards – she’s almost out of produce, and most of what’s left is quick calories. Pre-made sauces. Condiments. Some sausages, a defrosting slab of brisket she intends to slow-roast and eat for the next week or so. Like hell she’s sharing that, though. Given the limited selection on hand, she opts for some roasted vegetable pasta…thing. Shaw does a lot more of her own cooking these days, compared to what she used to. There was a need for a hobby.

She’s got her hands full running operations for the Machine – now she’s the ace-up-the-sleeve, rather than the front line. Sometimes she thinks the Machine doesn’t call on her often as a kind of courtesy, which is annoying as hell. As though she needed to convalesce! She’s totally fine. When the mood strikes her, she’ll go on manual surveillance of Finch or Fusco just to see what they’re up to these days. On a few occasions, she gets herself caught looking by Harold, and they nod and keep their distance and move on. But one of those times, he sent her a message over Signal to a burner phone she’s since discarded saying that he appreciated her watchful eye. That he and Grace are doing well. Now and again Shaw gets to fly across the country with a manufactured identity and weapons available on site to assist when a hammer is the blunt-force instrument required. For the most part, the newbie teams have things covered. Full of scalpels. Good at their jobs.

Retirement sucks.

Hence, cooking.

Onion, garlic, red bell pepper, summer squash, and tomato go in the oven. She tosses pinches of salt into some water that’s, annoyingly, not up to a boil yet. Company can deal with what’s on offer, so spaghetti it is.

In a few minutes the noodles are sticking in a bundle above the roiling surface of the water, Shaw waiting to stir them. The doorbell sounds and she looks down at the half-bending pasta; the bell rings again and she growls, low, before abandoning her post.

“Look, whoever you are—” she begins, ready to interrogate, to question, ready for a stranger that the Machine decided to introduce her to this evening.

Instead she finds herself face-to-face with the owner of the voice that’s haunted her for over a year.

_You shouldn’t be here._

_Why are you always just showing up out of nowhere?_

Root stands there in a leather jacket, hands in the pockets of her dark jeans, hip cocked to one side, beanie pulled low on her head. Her hand is behind her ear, rubbing lightly. Shaw doesn’t think Root’s aware that she’s doing it.

Behind Shaw there’s a hissing sound as bubbles burst over the sides of the pot – in a second more there’ll be a scorching smell from the pasta water hitting the burner.

“Hi, Sameen.”

Shaw feels her body react before her conscious mind can catch up. Her fist punches, bam, catches Root squarely in the cheekbone, and as the other woman reels back and almost topples from Shaw’s front step, Shaw catches the front of her jacket up in her fists and pulls her in. It’s a kiss to echo the first one she gave Root, at an elevator in a building where none of them should have been, right before she was captured. It’ll bruise if her punch didn’t. It’s not elegant. Their teeth click together. Root’s kissing her back, hands clenching into Shaw’s hair. Shaw wants to eat her alive.

Root’s hands are shoving against her chest, so Shaw leans back, feeling sucker-punched herself.

“I could kill you,” Shaw hears herself say, “for letting me think you were dead.”

“Fine by me if it’s a _little_ death!" Root's tone belies the sudden brightness in her eyes.

“You _always_ ruin the moment—”

“Admit it. You missed me.”

“You have some explaining to do.”

“Then let’s have dinner,” Root says, and Shaw yanks her inside.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows a timeline roughly cobbled together; the first two scenes take place ambiguously through Season 3 – after Root becomes the analog interface but prior to the loss of her hearing in one ear. Scene 3 is set post “Most Likely To...” in season 3 when Root receives the red-flagged numbers; scene 4 is in between “The Devil You Know” and “If-Then-Else” from Season 4. 
> 
> The final scene is post-Season 5 and draws on my personal fave headcanon to explain what I think would have been the most satisfying ending for these two – love how the Machine and Root conspired secretly to keep Root alive, and how she revealed herself again once it was totally safe to re-emerge and she’d recovered fully! Love that for her. Love that for them. 
> 
> This fanfiction was created for the [Fandom Trumps Hate](https://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com/) 2020 charity event as a gift to ladyterabithea! Thank you so much for supporting the Young Center for Immigrant Children's Rights <3 It's my first time writing for this pairing, and it was a delight. Thank you also to the FTH organizers for extending the deadline – it really helped me out this year with everything going on!


End file.
